Almost Love (37 page)

Chapter Fifty

Juliet jotted down a few notes for herself before calling Carolyn Sheldrake. Other than being Alex Tarrant’s friend, the woman was a completely unknown quantity. Juliet did not like conducting important interviews by telephone with witnesses she had not met. If the situation hadn’t been so urgent, she would have arranged to meet Ms Sheldrake in London. As that wasn’t possible, at the very least she wanted to get her questions in the right order.

Carolyn Sheldrake proved to be an engaging and helpful witness. She seemed to be very open and genuinely worried about Alex Tarrant. She told Juliet that she had spoken only once to Alex since the break-in, when she had still seemed very shaken by it. She’d indicated that there were details that she was not allowed to disclose to Carolyn.

“Naturally I was curious,” said Carolyn, “but I was much more concerned about the effect of whatever it was on Alex than on what it was in itself. I hope that it wasn’t something very horrible?”

“It was quite unpleasant,” said Juliet. “Mr Tarrant said that you had met his wife recently for lunch in London. Did you think that there was anything worrying her?”

There was a long silence before Carolyn Sheldrake cleared her throat. Still she did not speak.

“Ms Sheldrake? Did you find it difficult to answer my last question?”

“Not exactly difficult, no. But I should hate to betray a confidence . . .”

“Ms Sheldrake, Mrs Tarrant’s life may be in danger. We have no idea where she is at the moment and this, coupled with the break-in, gives us good cause to think that someone intends her harm. If you can help to throw any light at all on what has happened to her, you must tell me.”

“Do you promise not to tell Tom?”

“Everything that you tell me will be kept strictly confidential unless it hinders the investigation.”

“I suppose that’s as much as I can ask for. I just don’t want to do anything to harm Alex’s happiness.”

“Please, Ms Sheldrake, we’re losing valuable time talking about this.”

There was another silence.

“OK. Alex was . . . not exactly upset when I saw her, but unhappy. She’d drifted into an affair which had proved unsatisfactory; from my outside perspective, it was difficult to see what the attraction was in the first place, but that is always the case in my experience – I usually find it impossible to explain the dynamics of sexual relationships, don’t you? Anyway, Alex asked my advice and I said that I didn’t like the sound of the man concerned and that she didn’t seem very committed either to him or to the affair. She agreed with me – I think she was really just asking me to confirm what she already thought herself – and promised me that she’d break the relationship off that day. I didn’t find out whether she actually did it, though, because I’ve spoken to her only once since then. Neither of us thought to bring up the subject of lover boy.”

“Did she tell you the name of her lover?”

“Yes – it was someone she’d met through work – aren’t they always! I’d never heard her mention him before. You’ll have to give me a minute to try to think what he was called. I think his name was Edward . . . or Edmund, perhaps.”

“Edmund Baker?”

“Yes, Edmund Baker. That was it. From Alex’s description, he sounded a very pompous and self-interested man.”

Tim was calling Andy Carstairs again, this time to ask him to send a policeman to bring in Edmund Baker for further questioning. Meanwhile, Juliet made tea for herself. It was many hours since she had eaten or drunk anything. A wave of faintness almost engulfed her. She shovelled an unaccustomed amount of sugar into the tea and gulped it down quickly.

She revived quickly. She went back to her desk and looked again at the translated newspaper articles and the other documents that Katrin had sent. Then she conducted a quick mental review of all the information that she had collected over the past weeks. There must be some common theme to this strange ragbag of happenings and circumstances: two abductions; smears of blood at the addresses of each of the people abducted; an unidentified man who had certainly been murdered; the suspicious death of the wife of Edmund Baker, the County Heritage Officer, at a railway crossing; Baker’s affair with Alex Tarrant; archaeologists a-plenty, including the celebrated Dame Claudia McRae, the first of the abductees, who through ingenious analysis had expounded a right-wing interpretation of ancient cultures and had now almost certainly met her end in a gravel pit; her war-time relationship with a female Norwegian academic; the female academic’s disappearance decades ago after a fire; Jane Halliwell, lecturer in right-wing Politics turned secretary-companion, who was helping Dame Claudia to complete a mysterious magnum opus; Guy Maichment, former student in right-wing Politics turned landscape gardener, who was also Claudia McRae’s nephew; his mother, possibly called Abigail, possibly Dame Claudia’s adopted daughter; Guy’s own disappearance.

These people and events were certainly inter-related in some way. Then there had been the other case – the drugs case headed up by Andy Carstairs – elements of which seemed to have brushed up against the McRae case on several occasions; the cared-for teenagers working on the Herrick Estate, where Guy Maichment was also working, who had been caught with drugs that they swore they knew nothing about; the cared-for boy who saw Krystyna Baker go to her death; the involvement of the delinquent Padgett family, who had clearly been drawn into something deeper than they had bargained for; Tom Tarrant, social worker, also husband of Alex.

The two cases must be related . . . but what was the link?

Tim burst in upon her thoughts.

“I’ve just heard separately from Gary Cooper and Andy Carstairs. Jane Halliwell checked out of the Welland Manor Hotel this morning and left no forwarding address. Edmund Baker has also disappeared. Both of his sons are now at his house. One of them was out looking for him when I called; the other said that they have not seen him since this morning, though they didn’t realise that he was missing until this afternoon. I saw him myself this morning, at the Archaeological Society, so they are probably telling the truth.”

Juliet stared at him as if she was in a trance.

“It is the children!” she said. “The children at the Herrick home – they are in danger. I haven’t worked out the details, but I’m certain of it!”

Chapter Fifty-One

Although she had hit her head on the side of the van as she was pushed inside it, at no point was Alex entirely unconscious. The man who had grabbed her forced her down to her knees and swiped her across the back of her head. Coupled with the accidental blow, this almost knocked her out. She was dimly aware of having her face shoved down into a pile of fishy-smelling fabric. Her hands were still pinioned behind her in a rough male grasp. Her captor had large hands; he was able to hold both her wrists in one of them while securing her with some kind of restraint with the other. This turned out to be a makeshift handcuff of plastic ties. It was whipcord thin. She felt it dig into her flesh as he let her go, tossing her arms unceremoniously down on to her back as he did so. She tried to kick upwards with her legs in a hopeless bid to catch him in the face.

“Oh, would you do that?” He sounded grim. He grabbed her legs and fastened her ankles with a similar kind of device. While he was still kneeling beside her, he pulled back her head roughly and thrust a balaclava helmet over her face and hair. She realised that he had put it on back-to-front, because although it was dark in the van she had at first been able to make out dark shapes and outlines and now she could no longer see at all. The knitted helmet stank of beer and cigarettes and some nameless but horrible odour of unwashedness. She felt herself begin to retch.

“I would not bother if I was you,” said the voice. “If you choke on vomit it is not my business.” He spoke haltingly, as if he had to search for the correct words.

Alex tried to assume some vestige of dignity. She opened her mouth to speak, even though she was afraid that she would only be able to manage gibberish. The voice that came out was thin and high with fear, but coherent.

“I don’t know who you are or why you want to frighten me,” she said. “You’d better not try to hurt me, because there will be people looking for me very soon. I’ve been offered protection by the police. But if you tell me what it is that you want, I will honestly try to help you, if it lies within my power.”

Her voice was muffled by the rancid wool of the headgear, but her captor seemed to understand. He appeared to find this short speech amusing.

“Very fine police protection turned out to be,” he said. “Where are the policemen now? As for hurting you, that is up to you. If you help, you will be well. If you don’t, we have guns. You must stay for a day, maybe a little longer; then perhaps you can go.”

“Why?” said Alex, suddenly fearful that it was not herself that she should be worrying about. “What are you planning?”

“Stop talking,” said the figure. She could feel his breath against her cheek; he must have been leaning over her. He stank of sweat and some other odour that she could not place – a burnt sackcloth kind of smell. “Turn yeer head this way.”

She did as she was bidden. She felt one of the large hands lift the wool from the lower part of her face and clamp a great square of sticking-plaster across her mouth. In the same instant, the van bumped into movement. Too late, Alex realised that she had lost her only opportunity to scream out for help, dangerous though it might have been.

The van gathered speed quickly. Alex’s fear was soon eclipsed by the extreme discomfort of having to roll helplessly on its floor as the driver cut corners and took bends too fast. Her arms and wrists strained against their bonds. Her knees banged against crates and van floor repeatedly, until she was certain that they must be bleeding. Her head ached from the blows and her mouth was dry. Because the plaster had been fastened tightly she could not swallow properly. And the pervasive stench of fish made her want to vomit.

During the drive she had no further contact with the man who had climbed into the van with her; nor did he speak to her again. She knew that he must still be there, because the van had been moving fast ever since he had gagged her and there was no way into the cab from the back, but he made no noise.

After some minutes the journey became smoother. She thought that it must be because they had left behind the town’s network of small streets and continued along one of the country roads that lay beyond. She had no clue about where they were going. They could be heading for the A1 or penetrating deep into one of the fens. Alex closed her eyes and prayed for simple things: release from her pain, fear and nausea; above all, to be reunited with Tom again. She desperately wanted to be with Tom now, to fall into his arms with a clear conscience – or as clear a conscience as memory would permit.

Against all odds, she must have slept for a while. She was suddenly jerked awake as she became aware that the van was juddering to a halt. Nothing happened for a few seconds. Then she heard the driver’s door open and the scrunch of heavy boots on gravel. The rear doors were yanked wide.

“Jared!”

It was the van driver’s voice.

“Jared! Come out! Where is she?”

“Tied up on the floor.”

“She better be all right. You didn’t hit her?”

“You said not to. Just one small tap before I tied, to quieten. She’s OK. I’ll bring her inside?”

“Keep your fists to yourself in future. We’ll take her in together. She’ll have to be carried, because we’ll need to keep her bound and her eyes covered. Wait with her while I ring the bell.”

The footsteps marched away. They returned after a short interval.

“They’re ready inside. Help me to turn her over.”

Alex’s original captor grabbed her by the shoulder and the waist together and flipped her on to her back.

“Gently, for God’s sake!”

Pushing ‘Jared’ aside, the van driver thrust his arms under Alex’s shoulders and the small of her back and hoisted her out of the vehicle. It flitted through her mind that now would be her last chance to struggle, but swiftly she reflected that she had no idea of where she was. It was unlikely to be somewhere she could get help readily. She lay inert in the man’s arms, making herself as dead a weight as possible.

The tactic caused him no hindrance: the man was built like an ox. He strode across the gravel and up a short flight of steps with Alex in his arms. She felt a blast of central heating and could dimly discern lights though the dark wool that covered her face. They were entering a building. She sensed rather than heard a third person approach them.

“Good God!” said a new voice. “What have you . . .”

“Shhh . . .” said the van driver. “Don’t let her hear you.” Alex thought that she recognised the voice. She strained her ears for more, but no-one spoke again.

She was aware of being carried jerkily up several flights of stairs. The stairs must have been carpeted; the man’s heavy boots made no sound. At intervals she knew that they had reached a landing, because the jerkiness stopped and briefly the man was able to take smooth, even steps – several of them, which suggested that the landings were quite large. On one of these occasions her bound feet brushed against something – a bowl, perhaps, or a vase – and released a fragrant smell.

Even though she could not see, Alex sensed a certain opulence about the building. Evidently she had not been taken to some dirty old warehouse or filthy shed to die an obscure and squalid death. She tried to take courage from this thought.

She thought that she had counted six flights of stairs when the man who was carrying her paused. She had not previously been aware that someone was following them, but now she felt a second person brush past. The man who was carrying her started to move again, but they were no longer climbing. There was no carpet now – his boots were clumping on wood. She thought that they must be traversing the length of a narrow corridor, because twice her feet brushed against a wall. He cursed under his breath and turned, apparently to enable him to walk sideways for a few steps. He seemed to be taking care not to hurt her. In the van she had been treated with careless, even vindictive, roughness. Something or someone must be influencing this change in approach. She tried to draw strength from this also.

“In here.” It was said in a whisper, but she thought it was the same half-recognised voice she had heard earlier.

“Shut up,” said her bearer curtly.

She heard a door being opened. Her bearer paused. Did the other person pass them? She felt herself being lowered on to a bed.

“Don’t try anything,” the man warned. “I’m going to take the gag off now, to let you have a drink. If you try to struggle or call out, you’ll be sorry. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He hauled her into a sitting position. She heard him twist the cap of a plastic bottle and put it down. He ripped the sticking plaster from her face, leaving her lips and the skin around them sore and stinging. She felt him plonk down on the bed beside her. He seized her and encircled her with his left arm to hold her steady. He held the bottle to her lips with his right hand. She tried to duck away from it.

“Don’t be stupid. This’ll be your last chance to drink for a while.”

“How do I know what it is?”

“It’s just water. You heard me take the top off.”

Alex hesitated, then nodded her head.

“All right – just a little.”

He tipped some water into her mouth and she swallowed. He repeated the action twice.

“No more,” she said.

“OK. Now I’m going to put a proper blindfold on you. I’ll take the hat away. Don’t look at me.”

She nodded agreement. He lifted the hat and tossed it aside. The room was quite large. It was very dimly lit by a small table lamp that stood on an occasional table some distance from the bed. Alex found it difficult to acclimatise her eyes to the half-light, though she was desperate to see as much as she could before he deprived her of their use again. She blinked and made a huge effort to focus. She could see that the bed had an iron frame and that she was lying on a white coverlet. The wallpaper was patterned in an old-fashioned flower design, but it was too dark to be able to see the colours. The lamp on the table cast a halo of light which illuminated an engraving that hung above it. It was a three-quarters portrait of a nineteenth century gentleman wearing a frock coat. The picture was the last thing that Alex saw before the blindfold was fastened tightly around her head. It was made of a silky material and smelt freshly laundered.

The man got up. He propped her against the pillows. She sensed rather than heard him walk towards the door. She was aware of a brighter light penetrating from beyond as he opened it, then of this light’s being shut off abruptly as the door closed. The blindfold was not thick. She could still make out the dimmer light from the lamp on the table. She wondered why the man had not switched it off. It was warm in the room, but she suddenly felt very cold.